Gone are the rosy visions of a
white tulle gown and a grinning groom.
A fat pink baby wrapped in a quilt
I sewed in an effort to stem the tides of
my impatience through an endless, sticky
summer.

And a sunny, grassy yard
lined with berries and bird feeders.

These days I dream less of love, that
fickle thing.

More the clatter of passersby in
Venetian canals. The ache and throb of my legs
as I round the top of a postcard mountain.
Crisp reds and yellows and greens of a
farmer’s market in the equally crisp
morning air.

Still that sunny, grassy yard, though.
Lined with berries and bird feeders.

And seeing and hearing and tasting things
that make my heart feel as if it will burst.
Things that make my fingers reach for a pen.

And maybe love. Maybe still. A different kind.

Steady. Patient. Arrived. An envelope.

Or a symphony. Not the rush of youth’s tides.
A building of things, a minutely increasing
everything that becomes a masterpiece.

And the isn’t-this-world-beautiful kind of
love. Awe. At the masterpieces that are
already here.

And the final, beautiful discovery that
giving is more satisfying than receiving.

Giving, giving, giving every piece of me.
Sending life out into the world in
notebooks and hearty laughs and weeping
willows. And eventually this very soil.

When I was very small, I used to watch her get ready for dates.
She would lean into the mirror and dab on lipstick. My favorite
was a berry burgundy. It made her look exotic, more like
the women on television, less like my mother.

I used to try on her brown boots while she
brushed and fluffed and sprayed and powdered.
They came clear up to my thighs and made a fun clunk-clunk
as I marched up and down our short hallway, my arms held
at my sides like a runner’s, my hands in determined fists.
When she had taken a last satisfied look in the mirror,
she would hold out her hand in request. My fun clunk-clunk
was done. I would shimmy out of the boots and watch her
pull them over her calves, become a tall willow of a woman.

A few minutes later, the doorbell, a kiss on my forehead,
a breeze of our front door opening and shutting, the smell
of her citrus perfume filling our toy-strewn living room.
I read books while I waited for her, wearing the shape of her
berry burgundy lips on my forehead like a badge of honor.

I awoke to her returning in the blackness, my head having
long ago surrendered to the heavy pull of sleep, a book still in
my hand. I could hear her boots in the hall, water running,
the sound of her boots once more. Then her undecorated lips
kissing my smudged forehead, back to being my mother again.

Ah, isn’t it great to receive actual mail that you can tear open and hold in your hands?

Thanks to the Academy of American Poets for this big piece of actual mail – and for the reminder that my annual poetry marathon is almost here: a poem a day for 30 days.

Last year was my first time participating in National Poetry Month, and it was hard. As much as I like the idea of writing poignant verse each time I put my pen to paper, it just doesn’t happen like that every single day. In fact, most days it doesn’t happen like that. Most days I’m scribbling notes for an upcoming blog or proofing a short story and thinking, “yep, I still overuse commas.”

There is a different sort of depth both felt (and hopefully conveyed) when I write poetry. I can’t pull out poetry the same way I can produce blog content or marketing copy on the fly, even on days when I fill every last margin of my notebook with ideas. Poetry is, simply stated, a truer level of truth – and if I don’t feel connected to those sacred places in my soul while I’m writing, I can’t pull out a poem. Just about anything else might come out of the hat, but a poem? Nope.

I wrote some mediocre poems last April. There, I said it. I had committed to writing one poem each day, and sometimes I couldn’t get past the hurdles of a day job, a personal life, traffic jams, errands and other distractions to dig deep and pull out a little piece of truth in verse form. So as midnight approached and the hourglass began to empty, I admitted defeat and posted what I had managed to eke out. I wasn’t always proud of the finished product, but I was proud of myself for sticking to my commitment, writing and posting (even the mediocre ones) rather than making excuses and hiding behind my perfectionistic tendencies.

And, besides, I wrote some good poems, too. I wrote about my mom for the first time, which I hadn’t done in the five years since she died. That was something. And that poem, though I’m undoubtedly biased, was pretty good.

I’ve written poems more often since then, and sometimes they fall onto the paper with such an ease that I’m amazed. I’ve also read much more poetry; participating in National Poetry Month reawakened my long lost love for reading the likes of Mary Oliver and Hafiz and Brian Andreas.

So I’m diving in again this year. I’ll be working much more than I was last April and I’ll have a heavier homework load for Italian, but I’m committing to 30 poems in 30 days. And, hopefully, shuffled in among the mediocre ones will be some pieces I’ll be proud of.

Because being proud of myself is good. So is challenging myself. So is digging around to see what sorts of words are buried in the little poetic recesses of my soul. So is supporting the arts, even if it’s just with my pen and paper. All these things are good. This poetry stuff is good.

So join me. I hope you’ll read along. Or write along, if you’re feeling that adventurous.

If I’ve sparked your curiosity, here is my favorite poem I’ve written so far: Intermezzo. Enjoy. And see you in April.

I Feel Fancy

That Legal & Karmic Stuff

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